The Desert King's Captive Bride. Annie West

but never had she met one like this. He looked back, fixed on a point near her ear, his expression wooden.

      ‘What’s going on here?’ Ghizlan kept her tone calm, despite the unease trickling, ice cold, down her spine. She hadn’t paid attention before, had been too lost in her thoughts to notice, but a quick glance revealed all the guards were unfamiliar. One new face, maybe two, was possible. But this...

      ‘My orders are to take you to the Sheikh’s office.’

      ‘My father’s office?’ Despite a lifetime’s training in poise, Ghizlan couldn’t prevent the hammer of her heart against her ribs, or the way her hand fluttered up as if to stop it. An instant later she’d controlled the gesture, forcing her hand down. ‘Who gave this order?’

      The captain didn’t speak, but gestured for her to precede him.

      From confusion and shock, anger rose. Whatever was going on, she deserved answers and she intended to get them! She strode forward, only to slam to a halt as the whole squad of guards moved with her.

      Slowly she spoke, articulating each word precisely. She didn’t bother to turn her head. ‘Dismiss your men, Captain. They are neither required nor welcome in this place.’ For the beat of her pulse, then another she waited. ‘Unless you feel unable to guard a solitary woman?’

      Ghizlan didn’t deign to wait for his response, but strode away, her high heels smacking the marble floor, fire fizzing in her veins. It should have been a relief to hear the men moving away in the opposite direction, except she knew their officer followed right behind her.

      Something was very, very wrong. The knowledge twisted her insides and raised the hair at the nape of her neck.

      Ignoring a lifetime’s training, Ghizlan didn’t bother knocking on the door to the royal office, but thrust it open, barely pausing in her stride.

      Her breath escaped in a rush of frustration as she surveyed the room. It was empty. The person who’d allegedly given such outrageous orders to the palace guard, if it was the palace guard, was nowhere to be seen.

      She swayed to a halt before the vast desk and her heart spasmed as she inhaled the faint, familiar scents of papers and sandalwood, as well as spearmint from the chews her father kept in a box on his desk.

      Time wound back and she could almost believe it all a nightmare. That her father would enter from the rear door to his private quarters, intent on some report or new scheme to help his people.

      Ghizlan planted her palms on the satiny wood of the desk and drew in a deep breath. She had to get a grip.

      Whatever was going on, and instinct belatedly warned her something was, her father was gone.

      A shudder racked her so hard she had to grit her teeth so they didn’t chatter. She’d known all her life that her father’s love was for his country not his children. Yet he’d been vigorous enough to contemplate a third marriage. It still seemed impossible—

      Ghizlan straightened. She didn’t have time to wallow in sentiment. She needed to discover what was happening. For it had seemed as if the guards kept her prisoner rather than protected her. Unease stirred again.

      She smoothed her palms down her skirt, twitched her jacket in place and pushed her shoulders back, ready to face whatever unpalatable situation awaited.

      She was halfway to the study’s rear door when a voice stopped her. It wasn’t loud but the deep, bass rumble cut through her jumbled thoughts like the echo of mountain thunder.

      ‘Princess Ghizlan.’

      She swung around, twisting on a stiletto heel. Her pulse tripped unevenly as she took in the great bear of a man standing before the closed door through which she’d entered.

      He towered over her even though she wore heels and was often described as statuesque. The disparity in their heights surprised her. He wasn’t just tall, he was wide across the shoulders, his chest deep and his legs long and heavily muscled.

      He wore a horseman’s clothes—a pale shirt and trousers tucked into long leather boots. A cloak was pushed back off his shoulders so she glimpsed the knife at his waist. Not a decorated, ceremonial dagger as her father had worn from time to time, but a plain weapon, its handle gleaming with the patina of use.

      ‘Weapons aren’t permitted in the palace,’ she snapped out. It was easier to concentrate on that than the strangely heavy thud of her pulse as she met his gaze. It worried her almost as much as the inexplicable behaviour of the palace guards.

      The man’s eyes were blue-grey. Light-coloured eyes weren’t uncommon in Jeirut’s provinces, crossed by ancient trade routes between Europe, Asia and Africa. Yet Ghizlan had never seen eyes like this. Even as she watched the hint of blue was erased and his eyes under straight black eyebrows turned cool as mountain mist.

      He had a wide forehead, a strong nose a little askew from an old break and a mouth that flattened disapprovingly.

      Ghizlan arched her eyebrows. Whoever he was, he knew nothing about common courtesy, much less court etiquette. It was not for him to approve or disapprove.

      Especially when he looked like he’d stalked in from the stables with his shaggy black hair curling around his collar and his jaw dark with several days’ growth. It wasn’t carefully sculpted designer stubble on that squared-off jaw but the beard of a man who simply hadn’t bothered to shave for a week.

      He stepped closer and she caught a whiff of horse and tangy male sweat. It was a strangely appealing smell, not sour but altogether intriguing.

      ‘That’s hardly a friendly greeting, Your Highness.’ His words were soft but so resonant they eddied through her insides in the most unsettling way.

      ‘It wasn’t meant as a greeting. And I prefer not to be addressed as Highness.’ She might be of royal blood but she’d never be ruler. Despite the modernisation of Jeirut, of which her father had been so proud, there was no question of equality of the sexes extending that far.

      The intruder didn’t make a move, either to remove his weapon or himself. Instead he angled his head to one side as if taking her measure. His eyes never left hers and heat sparked at the intensity of that look.

      Who was this man who entered without a knock and didn’t bother to introduce himself?

      ‘Please remove your weapon while you’re here.’

      One dark eyebrow rose as if he’d never heard such a request. Silently he crossed his arms over his chest.

      Make me.

      He might as well have said it out loud. The challenge sizzled in the air between them.

      Bizarrely, instead of being scared by this big, bold, armed brute, Ghizlan’s blood fizzed as if trading glares with him had finally woken her from the curious, dormant feeling that had encompassed her since the news of her father’s death.

      She kept her hands relaxed at her sides but allowed her mouth to quirk up in the tiniest show of superiority. ‘Your manners as much as your appearance make it clear you’re a stranger to the palace and the niceties of polite society.’

      His eyes narrowed and Ghizlan felt that stare as if it penetrated her silk-lined suit to graze her flesh.

      Then in one swift movement he hauled his dagger from his belt and threw it.

      Ghizlan’s breath stopped in her throat and she knew her eyes widened but she didn’t flinch when the unsheathed blade skidded across the desk an arm’s length away.

      Slowly she turned her head, seeing the jagged cut in the polished wood. Her father had prized that desk, not for its monetary value, but for the fact it had belonged to an ancestor who had introduced Jeirut’s first constitution. A visionary, her father had called him. His role model.

      Ghizlan stared at the deep, haphazard scratch on the beautiful wood and anger welled, raw and potent. An anger born of shock and loss. She knew the stranger’s aim was deliberate. If he’d